Slasher imagines

Muted

You've heard of blinding rage, but what about the muted? The muted words and dying birds that hesitate to fly just because they know they'll die. Just if they don't migrate across the skies.
They always try and be nice to all the little guys but of course, it ends in vain. What's the point in trying when you know you're slowly dying and the words just fade away?
Sensitive and crying in the crevice of warmth that provides some comfort to those who are trying. Soon enough these efforts and all the actions after don't appease any party involved. They know that little bird had a bad day and maybe even a bad life but that is no excuse for always never being nice. Fake and loud and double-sided, he's never even chided, it echoes off the walls and it's gone on so long that three turned into one. But even that one has doubt linger in her mind.
Among the three there was a young and that one flower always bit her tongue. At first, she would chirp back and get in trouble for the words that weren't bounded, always leaving her wounded and curling back. Eventually, the words stopped dead in their tracks and couldn't escape the bars that latched so far deep into the hatch that they stopped struggling for that catch.
In her blinded rage, of course, soon turned vulgar and sour, that the effort was dropped and sighed away. Instead now she, and the other two peas, hold their tongue and mute the rage that come from the little bird they see everyday.